Of Acorns and Peaches
by kcrae
Summary: This is a modest two-shot about Arya and Gendry pre/post her leaving the BwoB. Spoilers for books 1-4. A little smutty, a little fluffy, all romance. I'm a sucker for this ship.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Normally I would never write anything this explicit about a 12 year old. It makes me feel like Gendry is a creep. In fact, I have a strong desire to age up Arya just to abate my own feelings of creeper-ness. I ship Arya/Gendry as an OTP but would prefer them to be bit older when they get together. I had intended this just to set up the actually story of when Gendry and Arya meet again post her time in Braavos. It got a bit out of hand, obviously. I would like some opinions on that. When I saw where I was going I wrote her up to14 and kept Gendry at 16 but it felt too forced away from canon. Eventually I settled her at 12 and aged Gendry down to 15. I'm not sure it helps. Please let me know what you guys think. Also, that is not an invitation to flame. It is an invitation to some discourse on this particular issue and nothing more than that and proper reviews with praise OR well-explained and thought-out criticism.

The Peach

She hadn't meant to forget about him or about anybody. It had been as natural for her to forget about him just as readily as she had abandoned herself when she left Westeros and so she had. And it was just as natural to now, as she stood back on the banks of the Trident, for Arya to remember. She remembered as she examined the fires they must have used to keep warm in the bitter chill of early winter in the Riverlands, as she walked through the maze of muddy squares on the ground left over in the snow when they packed up their tents to move on. As she kicked up the remnants of the meager cook fire they used in the center of camp and surveyed the discarded helms, dirty snow and charred cinders she remembered very clearly the Brotherhood without Banners. The lives of Weasel and Arry, Nan and Squab, Arya Stark and most of all she remembered Gendry.

Even though Arya was no longer the little girl who ran from him at the thought of being abandoned herself, she had a hard time picturing Gendry as anything but her stubborn, bull-headed boy. A boy who she had wished desperately would never leave her. She pictured his thick mop of coal black hair and his strong, dark hands. She lingered on the look in his deep blue eyes as he held her down and tickled her waist on the floor of the smithy at Acorn Hall. The fierce and husky timber of his voice as he sent off that old man who had, she now realized, propositioned her in the Peach thinking she was some lowborn whore.

She was struck with some measure of amusement at that and allowed a little giggle to escape her lips. Gendry, who'd been so indignant that she had been propositioned at all, had mounted the stairs almost directly after her.

They had been in the habit of sleeping with each other since they had left Hot Pie at the inn. He would wrap his large arms around her and she would bury her small frame against his chest and relax into sleep with the steady breath of her companion ghosting over her head. He had, several times before that night, moved her from her own bedroll to his even after she'd gone to sleep. She berated him as stupid several times and Anguy, Tom and Lem often made vulgar references but she felt happier and safer for it. That night at The Peach had been the only exception. Arya released a sigh of frustration at her memories. No matter what she did she could never forget that night.

He had been angry when she'd gone to bed and when she heard his movement in the room she had turned to apologize since he was a stupid, stubborn, bull of a boy and she didn't like the thought of sleeping alone. She was surprised to seen him undressing irritably beside the bed and spun over again as he began to tug his breeches off. He'd never undressed completely before, especially not after he found out he'd been traveling with a highborn lady. This night though he'd undressed fully and as he slid into bed beside her he didn't curve himself around her body as she wanted him to, as he was supposed to. He only lay stiffly beside her. She could still remember her childish confusion at his resistance. She hadn't realized, couldn't have realized, how difficult it must have been for him. Even now she can't blame him; all men at that age are slaves to their cocks.

She growled, frustrated, and sighed loudly. He still lay there, stiff as a board. Then she whispered.

"Gendry?"

Not so much as a stir beside her. At a loss Arya did the only thing she could think of doing. With a mumbled curse she turned around and flung her small body over his, moving to hold him as he had so often held her. If he had been angry before she couldn't tell at that moment for how silent he was. He drew in a deep, ragged breath. Taking his silence for assent she tucked her head beneath his chin, her bare legs pressed tighter to his waist and her arms she draped carelessly over his shoulders. He moaned then, a soft, breathless sound. She can remember very clearly she had thought it was odd that he sounded as though he was struggling with some great force, as small as she was. She doubted the weight of her on his chest could cause him distress.

"M'lady," he'd said in his most measured voice, "move."

"Gendry," she'd answered, "are you still mad?" There was nothing for a moment. She lifted her head and squinted at him through the dark. His eyes were tightly shut and his mouth a thin line. "Gendry?" She questioned, whispering closer to his ear. She watched his expression as he groaned.

"M'lady. Get. Off." She squinted at him again, more of glare this time but it hadn't mattered since his eyes were still screwed shut.

"No." She had to be firm. She had not wanted him to refer to her that way, for she was no lady. He sighed and she almost laughed at his frustration at the time. She had only wanted to know what was bothering him and she hadn't anticipated being quite so much the cause.

"L-lady Arya," was all he managed to choke out when she wiggled back on his waist to get a better look at his face.

"What's wrong with you stupid?" She leaned back again and pushed roughly at his chest. In a flash he sat bolt up right and opened his eyes with a frustrated growl. He took in hand each of her wrists and leaned closer to her, his hair falling forward to brush against his forehead as he tried to pull her up to his chest and out of his lap.

"You," was his reply. His voice was quiet and dark. She still shivered to think of that tone. His hips were shuddering beneath her and his hands gripped her small wrists tightly, too tightly. She felt the bulge beneath her too late to move easily away. She had no idea what to do or what it meant but she had a suspicion. She'd spent too much time in the company of men and seen a good deal of them in their small clothes. Gendry, though, had never been so close to her while out of his breeches and the heat of his lap pressed into her through her tunic. He threw his head back and groaned again as she slid back in an attempt to break away and he rocked forward, his body's attempt at maintaining contact.

She could smell the ale on his breath when he lifted his head back up and looked her in the face. His pupils were dilated (which she had been taught later meant he was aroused) and his face was red from the tops of his ears to the middle of his chest. In his euphoria he had wrapped an arm around her back and was pressing her firmly down even as he struggled to pull her away from himself with the other sweaty hand still holding one of her wrists. His hooded eyes shot widely open in that instant and he shoved her from him in fit, as though she were aflame.

"Gods," she shouted as she tumbled back onto the room-sized bed and out of his lap, "you stupid!" She sat up indignantly and stared at him from her position at his feet, wide-eyed. The moonlight caused strange shadows to fall across his strong arms and chest. She'd never seen his "staff" so close or so long and hard as it had been then either. She was surprised that a boy of five and ten, only three years her senior could look so differently than any of the other boys she had seen. She knew he was much stronger than Hot Pie or Lomy but he even looked more muscled than Robb or Jon. She reached out as if to touch him, to touch it.

"S-stop," he said just as she began to move forward, all childish curiosity and no concept of his very adult needs which, now that she thought about it, he probably had little concept of as well considering his upbringing. "Turn around." He managed to get out before his hand wrapped around his shaft. "Please." He begged as his palm began to move along his length and his head dipped back into the pillows. Arya had not turned but watched curiously and innocently as he moaned and begged her to look away. Soon the only noise in their room above the Peach was the rhythmic pumping of his fist and his slow chant of "Arya, Arya, Arya, Arya, Arya," begging her. She thought to look away from his shame but couldn't, wouldn't. As his hand sped up she reached out to touch him. Her small fingers just barely scratched against his head, which was a deep purplish red and glistening with a substance that was leaking from a small hole at the tip. He cried out a wordless shout. She managed to drag her fingers across only a few times more before he released another strangled cry and his seed burst forward to cover his fingers and the ends of hers. She leapt back, startled by his savage ferocity and unfamiliar with the action.

He was breathing heavily and his "staff" was small again and lying against his body placidly. He head was still craned back but the redness was gone from his chest and cheeks. He let out a pathetic whimper. "Gods," he muttered.

She could laugh now, at six and ten (almost seven), at her own ignorance and the way she stared so fixedly at him. She had hardly any idea what had just happened, she hadn't yet known sexual desire. She would not even flower for another year from then. She had also not known how shamed Gendry would feel. She had been younger than him and higher born and he had, she was sure in his eyes, taken advantage. Not in her eyes though, she considered herself a woman grown at one and ten, which she had been a year since by that night.

When he moved to get dressed and leave she had begged him not to go downstairs and leave her. Apologizing for the mess she made and cursing him. He in turn had sworn and cursed and stomped about the room muttering about lowborn smiths and highborn ladies but in the end he came back and sat down. She mentioned Lem would be back soon so he pulled on a pair of breeches before curling around her like he used to. He still lay with her every night after that. It was different though. From then on she would press herself tighter against him hoping to feel the tell-tale signs of arousal because she was chiefly fascinated by the whole thing. She would wiggle against the bulge in his breeches every morning eliciting groans from him as he slept and glorying in the mornings when against his will he would drag her to him and press himself against her back. Inevitably he would wake up and, blushing, leave to bathe or feed and water the horses, etc.

He never again gave in and allowed her to witness his relief, no matter how sneaky she would endeavor to be. This was a paramount disappointment to her at the time but soon enough she was gone, kidnapped by the Hound. She thought of Gendry every day during her captivity but once she was in Braavos it seemed as though Gendry had been another little girl's friend. Her Bull had been a dream. Just a childhood fantasy that had belonged to Arya and Arya hadn't been in Braavos much.

Now though she was home and her bull, her knight, was waiting. She longed to show him the woman she had become. The small but shapely breasts beneath her tunic, the now womanly swell of her hips and she has been told she has very comely eyes. All those things she will give to Gendry if he'll have her. She just needs to find him.

She examined the game trail to the left of the camp and decided from the prints and horse droppings in the snow that was the direction they had led their horses in. She hoped this was in fact her Brotherhood and that her friend, Ser Waters of the Hollow Hill if she remembered his knighting accurately, would be in attendance. She mounted her courser and nudged him in that direction, they were no more than a day ahead of her, and moving slowly she'd wager. She kicked off with her heart full to bursting and savage smile on her lips. First Gendry, then she had others to track down. It was good to be home.


	2. Chapter 2

His Maiden of the Tree

He leaned farther out over the small stream with his steel pot in hand and when he pulled it back it was sloshing with water to be heated. He didn't mind the hot water this days since the nights were cold, as his friends would say, and full of terrors. He hadn't even wanted to be a member of the party originally, but he needed to get away from Lady Stoneheart, and they wanted another man to help hunt the Southron knights in the Brotherhood's territory. Her presence in camp always unnerved him and it was worse when she stayed at the inn. That aside, he had only just a fortnight past learned tell of her true name, and it made him sick to see her. Of course there had been whispers, but he never knew for sure. This time though, he had it from the Red Priest himself. It made Gendry cringe to think that such a hideous and terrifying thing could be the famed Catelyn Stark of Winterfell and the only mother left for his Lady Arya. He had taken to calling her that of late, his Lady. After all, Tom O'Sevens always told it that way. To Tom and his stories Arya was always Gendry's forest lass or Gendry's little peach or Gendry's runaway girl so why not Gendry's Lady? She never really acted like a lady-but Lady Stoneheart surely is a monster and people call her a lady whenever they address her even so.

"Gendry, bring us that water, lad!" shouted Lem, who was holding a skewer of rabbit over the fire as Anguy tried to hastily build a second spit. Lem's cloak, which had been less lemon then usual and had a new shoulder patch of rabbit hide, was dripping over the first spit because after Lem had insisted his cloak needed a wash in the river it had also needed somewhere to dry. He was not wrong. Now the cloak was back to bright but the braise of rabbits was far from done. Gendry brought the Grey Water over and set it on top of a rock near the base of the fire. That's what the townsfolk were calling it, Grey Water-because that's the color flesh'll turn when it rots in the river. Grey. Like Lady Stoneheart. They said if you drank it without boiling that you would rot from the inside. He shivered. It wasn't worth thinking about. All he wanted now was to go back and look after the inn. He didn't much like the children and only had a passing appreciation for the older tenants like Willow or Rodik, but it was warm and he had a forge to look after.

"What'll it be boys?" Tom O'Sevens asked as he sat beside Gendry at their large cook-fire. He had been the last to wash up, and looked chilled as he stretched his fingers toward the fire. The snow melt was as good a bath as you could expect when you went harrying. Lem shrugged and let out a grunt when his big shaggy beard brushed too close to the skewer he held and was singed.

"How about 'The Maiden of the Tree'," said Anguy with a sly smile aimed in Gendry's direction as he sat back from the finished and turning spit, "we haven't had _that_ one in an _age_!" Gendry narrowed his eyes and took up the sword beside him and the rag he used to clean the blades. Tom only laughed.

"Well the little maiden's lad has scarce been with us of late, have ye Gendry?"

Tom tucked his wood harp into his chest, and as he prepared to sing Gendry cleared his throat.

"I wouldn't if I was you," he said quietly. His protest silenced the group; nothing could be heard but the sharp crack of a twig off to his right. "Not if you want to keep this sword in my lap and not in your belly." Tom sized him up for a moment, eyes narrowed and his large nostrils flared.

"What do you think Lem," he asked without taking his eyes from the smith's. Lem flicked his eye from Tom to Gendry and back to Tom before he decided.

"Boy's having you on," was all Lem had to say.

_A winter maiden full and fair,_

_with eyes of beauty true._

_O' er hair she wore red flowers,_

_and on her lips the dew._

_Upon her came a noble youth,_

_in gleaming plate and mail._

_He begged the maiden's heart of her,_

_and took her hands a pale._

Gendry sighed as the first verse began and continued to rub at the sword across his lap. They had tried to find Arya, they had hunted and searched and combed all the forest they could, but to no avail. She was lost and although they told him they regretted it, they didn't have the time or men to keep looking. He'd heard later that the Hound was dead. When he asked, no one had heard of a little girl found with him or near him. The men gave him a bit of a hard time of it after not too long. The only one who didn't seem to think it strange that Gendry cared more for a lost comrade than for the girls of the Peach was Ser Beric, but he was gone soon after. To be replaced by Lady Stoneheart.

Most knew nothing of Arya Stark, but the men who'd known them together, like Anguy, Lem, Jack, or Tom told stories when in their cups about him and his princess of Winterfell. He hadn't even bothered to contradict them because it kept the girls away and he liked being reminded of her. Harwin would often commend his choice. He said whilst he and Gendry left the presence of Lady Stoneheart a sennight past, "Little Arya Underfoot'll grow up, if she can, to be just like Lyanna Stark and not her lady mother. Lyanna was crowned the queen of Love and Beauty by Rhaegar Targaryan himself. And you're a knight now, worthy as any, I suppose." He didn't want to admit it but that had been part of the reason he joined the Brotherhood in the first place, to be knighted. He wanted to be her equal.

_My featherbed is deep and soft,_

_and there I'll lay you down,_

_I'll dress you all in yellow silk,_

_and on your head a crown._

_For you shall be my lady love,_

_and I shall be your lord,_

_I'll always keep you warm and safe,_

_and guard you with my sword._

At first hearing this song had bothered him enough to make him up and quit their company some nights, especially when it was preceded with a dedication to "Gendry and his Lost Lady" or something of the like. He left many a half-eaten dinner to get away from it. One such night Tom followed him out and asked why he'd left and all Gendry could say was that he hated the song. It sounded stupid and childish even to him. Tom just took Gendry's shoulder and told him they'd find her. Said it did the men good to hear about a lady and her lover. Besides, he said, only he and Gendry knew it was about him and Arya Stark. They hadn't found her, but Tom wasn't wrong about the men's spirits and in time it comforted him as well.

_And how she smiled and how she laughed,_

_the maiden of the tree._

_She spun away and said to him,_

_no featherbed for me._

_I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,_

_and bind my hair with grass,_

_But you can be my forest love,_

_and me your forest lass._

After that he didn't mind hearing it so much. He still made a protest every time someone suggested Tom play it, but never again left before it was done. It was always better than listening to "The Rains of Castamere" again, even though Tom only played it when it rained. After Tom finished "The Maiden of the Tree" he launched into a rousing rendition of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" and then the solemn "Song of the Seven."

Gendry wasn't tired while he ate his pathetic parcel of hare and sipped at his hot water but he decided once he finished he would open his bedroll either way. He had a long trek back to the inn tomorrow.

He downed the last of his water and licked his fingers before standing, "I'm to bed." He muttered as Anguy began complaining that Tom wouldn't let him sing. They called their farewells, and he walked toward his bedroll beside the small fire he'd been using to heat his drinking water earlier. He put a few more of the sticks he'd gathered and dried earlier on the diminished flames and stoked it to a small blaze. He could still hear the men, but it was dark enough and he was far enough away from the main fire that he couldn't see them. He lifted up the corner of his large pile of furs and removed his wet boots before settling into his night's bed.

A hand wrapping itself over his mouth and a dagger pressed against his throat stopped him from drifting to sleep.

"I thought you would never come abed, Ser." He felt a body against his back, warm and close. The attacker had buried himself in Gendry's furs long before he had come to sleep. "Do you like that song they sung for you, 'The Maiden of the Tree'?" He tried not to move. "I thought it was pretty stupid last time I heard it." He stiffened. What kind of highwayman was this? His voice had a familiar ring, but be it friend or foe Gendry couldn't decide. He had no friends he would expect to find in his furs, and if this were a foe, why was he making small talk and not killing him already?

"I only remember because I was at a hall near here, Acorn Hall. I was in this awful dress, it made me look like an acorn tree." His breath caught in his throat like so much smoke from a hot forge. "I got into a fight with a friend, a smith's 'prentice he was. He said I smelled nice then. How do I smell now, Ser?" He closed his eyes to better focus on the stranger's soft voice. He breathed deeply. The pressure of the dagger left his neck and the hand pressed against his lips slid away and rested gently on his shoulder. "Well?"

He wanted to laugh, to jump up and look down on her face, he wanted to hold her in his arms but instead he took another deep breath. "You smell of winter and fire and sweet fennel, m'lady." She gripped him tighter then and he allowed her to ease him onto his back and soon was face to face with the lost girl, his Lady Arya. The fire cast a red glow over her features, accenting her prominent cheek bones and lips more full than he remembered. She always wore the same look whenever she was about to convince him to do something dangerous. Her hair, which had been hacked and sheared short most of their friendship had grown out and was to her shoulders, tumbling around her collarbone. He couldn't be sure of the color but in the light of the fire it looked dark and glossy. He wanted her, desperately.

"How is Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill? Did he miss Arry?" She was smirking because, he was sure, she felt him stiffen beside her. It was impossible to hide in only his smallclothes. He didn't know where her things were but her clothes were not on her body and this was a body Gendry had scarce even given his mind the reign to imagine. It was a body of bare skin and soft curves and downy hair and he was sure he could make it sing for him the way he made a good sword sing if given half the chance. He leaned closer to her face and felt the heat of her breath wash over his mouth.

"No." She narrowed her eyes just a fraction and he smirked. "I once knew an Arya though, who I miss some. Never forgot the feel of her fingers." He barely had time to get the words out before she cuffed him on the jaw and enveloped him in her arms.

"Stupid," she mumbled as she pushed him down deeper into the soft fur but he was still twice her size and did some pushing of his own. He was forcibly reminded of holding her down on the floor of the smithy at Acorn Hall, like she'd mentioned earlier. He remembered how she had wriggled from his arms and how it had made him feel for days afterward. Holding her down with his weight as her body writhed beneath his. This time, he thought, he would not let her get away.

She stared up at him, flushed and breathing heavily. He wanted to ask her where she'd been, what she'd done, why'd it take so long to come back, and four years worth of other questions but he couldn't utter one. They didn't have to do that this night. This night was not about the time they spent apart. He only said, "Are you to stay m'lady?"

She took a time to think it over before finally saying, "I am, Ser." He smiled and let his hand drift across her shoulder and to the curve of her breast. He allowed his thumbnail to rasp gently over her erect nipple. The goosebumps that formed over her chest fascinated him and he stared for a moment before again looking at her face.

"With me, m'lady?"

This time she was quicker to respond but her voice cracked as he cupped her breast again. "What do you think, Ser Stupid?" He smiled and eased his head down carefully.

He tasted her lips before raising his head again, "Then be quiet." Her eyes widened again and he kissed the small, outraged line of her mouth. He slid his tongue past the lips he'd dreamt of and tasted her. He'd imagined over and over again what it would feel like and she was sweeter then he imagined. She tasted of cranberries and tangy Arbor Gold. His body betrayed his thrill and pressed into her softness. Her form was lithe and firm and altogether as it once was, except it had a yielding quality and a roundness of hip and bosom that he could never have imagined. He held her as gently as he could with his callused hands and used his tongue to explore what it could reach of her. She consented with a curse, a sigh and when he lowered his mouth to nibble on the flesh below her breast she gasped.

He slid one head behind her to lift her breasts up to him so he could more easily worry them with his lips and teeth. His other hand wandered between their bodies and found a telling wetness between her thighs. He knew enough to know how much she wanted him and although he hadn't often been with women in an intimate way except for a few drunken fumbles he knew ways to make her enjoy him. He slipped a long finger into her warm nest of curls and curved it carefully as she whimpered his name softly. Her hands wound into his hair and her body tightened around him. As it did so she hauled his head up by his hair savagely and captured his mouth with her own. He was so surprised he hadn't even realized how closely his breeches laces where to her maidenhead until he felt the heat through them.

Everything else was a blur as they worked together to tear the laces out and push his breeches off his hips and she wrapped her long legs around his body. He paused to look at her face as he pressed into her. Her mouth opened wordlessly, her eyes snapped shut, a flush crept up her neck to her face, she threw her head back into the fur and she released a quiet howl. She was beautiful, his Maiden of the Tree. This was how it was supposed to be, the two of them joined together beneath the branches on a bed of fur and leaves.

He pushed into her heat over and over again feeling her tightness wrap around him and pull him ever forward. It begged him further like hot, wet velvet knotting around his shaft. He began to grunt and whisper her name against his will as his lady's body arched beneath him. Her fingers clawed at his back, holding him to her. Her fingernails were the only thing reminding him he was not in a waking dream.

They were the same fingernails that had once eagerly brushed against his swollen head as he rubbed himself to completion. The very same that had been attached to the hand of the most eager, curious, headstrong girl he would ever know. It was the girl who was now beneath him, covered in sweat and thrashing as her body convulsed and wrung his seed from him.

His Arya, his Maiden of the Tree. She had come home and taken him as her forest love just as eagerly as she had taken his trust on the Kingsroad, his sword at Harrenhal and his heart on the floor of the smithy of Acorn Hall.


End file.
